DOROTHY MORRIS: A pink parasol amidst winter’s bleakness

If I were 40 again, maybe I’d be cross-country skiing or making angels in the snow with my nieces and nephews. But, alas, discretion and old bones now dictate otherwise.

Has this been the worst winter ever in Massachusetts? Or do I only believe this because I am in my 70s and feel like a caged bear?Is it because my contemporaries are all warning me to be careful of the ice – and that two of my peers have been in rehabilitation more than two months after breaking bones? Is it because of the potholes or that my car was rear-ended last week on a city street (although, truth be told, it wasn’t snowing). Is it because of all the activities I’ve had to cancel, even missing my annual visit to the Christmas Pops to the tune of 40 some dollars?

And could it be because a condo neighbor sends me almost daily updates about her pool swims in Florida? Recently, I checked our condo’s pool (or where it is buried under about 10 feet of snow) and despaired.

Maybe I should be happy I no longer have to face hours of teen temperatures at Columbia Station waiting for a bus when the train has broken down due to frozen rails, while commuting to work in Boston. Maybe I should think about the people in other countries facing war and earthquakes and drought. Even other states and sections here in the United States are worse off (I’m not talking about Atlanta!).

But I have also been fighting bouts of SAD since Thanksgiving, due to the lack of sunlight and inability to be out of doors. Don’t check with the weatherman, but I seem to remember there were only three days of sunlight in December.

If I were 40 again, maybe I’d be cross-country skiing or making angels in the snow with my nieces and nephews. But, alas, discretion and old bones now dictate otherwise.

My salvation has been walks at Castle Island in South Boston whenever possible. Very fortunately, the sidewalks there are usually fairly clear even after a snowstorm.

Out of the depths, I reached for any sign of spring in this frigid, desolate winter. A few weeks ago, as I contemplated the black and white landscape, I noticed a woman carrying a pink parasol. I laughed delightedly, thinking back 60 years to the days in Dorchester when I and my “big sister,” Anne Marie, walked proudly with our new parasols. As on most solitary walks at Castle Island, I was inspired to write a poem about the episode.

More recently, I brought some leftover croutons to feed the birds. I scattered the food to the winds and was overshadowed by a flock of gulls, which made short work of the food. While climbing to the upper level of the fort, “what to my wondering eyes should appear” but a robin. You could have knocked me over with his feather! I have seen sea gulls, pigeons (galore), starlings, and on one blessed Christmas morning, when my brother was dying, I saw Canada geese and one rare snow goose. Never a robin. At this first sign of spring, my spirits soared, but unbelievably then I saw at least 50 fat robins pecking at the earth. My only regret was that I had not saved the croutons for the robins!

I’ve watched the bobbing of winter ducks, acquainted myself with a myriad of dogs, and seen winter sunsets tinting the bay pink or gold. In the solitude, I can unwind or meditate. The only offset, and it is minor, has been the lack of facilities, including a cup of coffee at Sullivan’s.

All that changed a few Saturdays ago, when the temperature miraculously soared into the high 50s and, unannounced, Sullivan’s opened a week early, sensing a great economic opportunity. And the owners were not disappointed. The line outside the store, which in summer often stretches to the street, was three times longer than usual. (Of course, it was lunchtime.) The island was filled with people, far too many for my liking. There were children running around with sleds, or yanking unruly dogs, crowds blocking the pathways, “spring” revelers, pandemonium.

All of a sudden, I realized what a peaceful gift this winter has been. MY island was invaded, and the Snow Queen was not pleased!

Dorothy E. Morris is a board member of the South Boston Arts Association, a freelance writer and a poet. Her poetry collection, “God Lights His Candles,” based on walks at Castle Island, was published by Ibbotson Press in 2012. She lives in Quincy.